


Ultima Ratio

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [4]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood is a Good Trainer, Alec trains Clary and it goes about as well as expected, Clary Fray & Alec Lightwood Friendship, Clary is not automatically an amazing fighter, Clary's fighting skills are nowhere near the other shadowhunters', Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Harm, That isn't how fighting works, this is the hill i will die on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: It's five in the morning and Clary is still in the training room, wailing away at a punching bag. The only other person she has for company is the Institute's resident hard-ass, Alec Lightwood.





	Ultima Ratio

**Author's Note:**

> This little one-shot occurs over a span of time, starting about one month after Clary's eighteenth birthday and extending a bit beyond episode 2.05.
> 
> Title is Latin for "last resort" because let's be completely honest here. The last thing Alec wants to do is spend his free time with Clary.
> 
> Rated for mild depictions of blood and discussions of mental health issues.

Clary’s fist connects again. The punching bag barely moves and she knows that it isn’t a hard enough punch, even though the impact rattles all the way up her arm and it _hurts_ but she doesn’t stop. She tries again, and this time her knuckles somehow glance right off of the vinyl. She is standing right in front of the punching bag and she still somehow manages to mess it up.

A choked off gasp escapes as she goes for broke and swings one last time. It makes contact, but it’s more like a friendly tap than any sort of attack. Her vision is blurring and all she can think is that it would make her a liability in the field. Her hands are shaking and she has to fold them up against her chest and lean her forehead against the damp fabric of the punching bag just to get her breathing under control.

When she was a kid, probably around eight or so, her mother had signed her up for karate lessons instead of ballet class. Clary had thrown one of her worst tantrums to date, but her mother had been absolutely adamant that she attend. She did end up going to the class, but she had stubbornly refused to behave and she had bitten several of the other kids just so she could be kicked out. Her mother had stopped pushing for karate and Clary had been signed up for ballet the next week.

Looking back on it, Clary wishes that she had stayed in martial arts. Not that karate is at all comparable to slaying demons, but at least she would know how to throw a simple punch without messing up. All she has is a few women’s self-defense lessons – that she hadn’t even _paid attention to_ – that Luke forced her to attend when she was a teenager and some experience from that one time Simon snuck up on her and she accidentally pepper sprayed him.

And now Simon is a vampire and she’s a demon hunter who can’t even kill demons. And Luke is alpha of a werewolf pack and her mom is being held captive by her own homicidal father.

She chokes back a sob and straightens up, taking a step away from the punching bag and falling into what she hopes is an approximation of the fighting stance Jace and Izzy tried to show her. She brings her hands back up in front of her, clenching them into tighter fists and feeling the pull of dried blood on her split knuckles. Her right arm lashes out, but it isn’t fast enough, isn’t hard enough, isn’t _good enough_ and she wants to cry but she _can’t_ , not anymore.

“You need to pivot your hips and torso,” a voice mentions from behind her.

Clary isn’t expecting it, and she jumps and turns around swinging before she can even think about it. But her fist never makes contact against skin. Instead, it’s stopped right in midair, long fingers wrapped around her wrist. She expects the grip to be firm and bruising, but the fingers are relatively light and gentle. It’s an even more surprising fact once she looks up and makes eye contact with none other than the Institute’s resident hard-ass, Alec Lightwood.

His face is carefully blank and he doesn’t hold her gaze for long. His eyes flicker down to look at her hand and he dispassionately takes in the blood that is congealing and crusting over her knuckles. “You also need to wrap your hands. Rule number one,” he adds.

Before Clary can even try to argue, Alec is dragging her over to one of the benches that line the training room. He forces her to sit and she plops down gracelessly; her entire body _aches_. A wet disinfectant wipe is tossed her way and she fumbles to catch it.

“Wipe the blood off, and apply an _iratze_ ,” Alec instructs, as no-nonsense and brusque as normal.

She wants to snap back at him, wants to fight off his unwanted assistance, wants to insist that she’s fine and can train by herself. But that’s an absolute lie and her eyes burn with tears and so she reluctantly does as she’s told. Once her knuckles are cleaned up and healed, Alec takes her right hand and pulls out a wrap.

Whenever she trains, Jace or Izzy wrap her hands for her. Every time, Clary has tried to watch and memorize how they do it, but they always move too quickly for her to replicate it. She expects for Alec to do the same and for her to continue on with never knowing how to wrap her own hands.

But, for whatever reason, Alec goes slower. “You start with the wrist,” he says. “You need to wrap around it two or three times, tight enough that you can feel it but not so tight that it will cut off circulation. It needs to help prevent your wrist joint from flexing too freely, or else you run the risk of a sprain.” In the same clinical and succinct manner, he walks her through the entire process, until her right hand is perfectly wrapped. “There are a lot of small, delicate bones in the hands. When you punch, it puts a lot of sudden pressure on those bones, so you need to ensure that you have cushioning to help absorb the impact,” he explains once he’s finished.

And then he holds out the other wrap expectantly. She stares blankly at him for several seconds before it actually clicks and she hesitantly takes the cloth from him. Alec wrapped her right hand, meaning that her dominant hand is now free to wrap her left and she wonders if that was a conscious decision on his behalf. She tries to replicate what she has just seen him do and it’s easier than she expects. Alec is silent beside her, letting her work through it at her own pace instead of trying to rush her, like Jace so often does. Whenever she messes up, he tells her and has her fix it on her own, unlike Izzy who typically just takes over and corrects things _for_ her.

At the end, her left hand is wrapped far less perfectly than her right, but it’s the best she’s ever accomplished. Beside her, Alec wraps his own hands. He doesn’t do it as hastily or absent-minded as his siblings. He’s methodical and he keeps his eyes trained on his own hands as he works. If there’s a part of the wrap that seems unsatisfactory to him, he goes back and fixes it instead of just accepting it.

It’s five in the morning and Clary hasn’t slept in a day or maybe two. She’s been frazzled and anxious and on edge for the entire month since her eighteenth birthday. She hasn’t gotten a full night’s rest in weeks and she hasn’t been able to just sit and _breathe_. But there’s something oddly calming and comforting in the muted dawn light filtering into the training room. Something settles in her at the sight of Alec Lightwood methodically wrapping his own hands that allows her to finally breathe.

She doesn’t get long to relish in it, however, as in the very next beat he’s standing up and striding over to the punching bag with a stern _‘come on, Fray,’_ tossed over his shoulder. Clary huffs at his less than friendly tone, but it doesn’t sting as much as she thinks it should, and she willingly drags herself to her feet and follows him.

Instead of going to the punching bag that Clary had previously been wailing on, they walk past it and head for a smaller bag that is off to the side. “The bag that you were using is the heavy bag,” Alec explains. “It weighs nearly as much as you do. You’re a light hitter and you have zero training, which means that you need a lighter bag, or else you will do some serious damage to your body.” He pats the side of the new bag and turns to look at her. “But first, we need to cover some basics.”

“Jace and Izzy already taught me the basics,” Clary argues. She doesn’t want to waste time on the easy stuff, she just wants to _punch_ something.

“Fray, you’ve been fighting for barely even a month. You haven’t had time to learn the basics yet,” he retorts, and it’s both perfectly logical and also very frustrating. Clary kind of wants to punch _him_. “You need to know the basics well enough that you don’t have to think about them, that you can trust your muscle memory when you’re out in the field and you have a million other thoughts on your mind.”

And, fine, that makes her a little less annoyed. It’s too sensible of a statement for her to argue against it. But she still has to bite her tongue.

“Now, show me your stance,” he orders.

Clary almost rolls her eyes, but she just barely manages to refrain as she slides into place. Alec doesn’t say anything for several long moments, and she can feel the weight of his stare boring into her. She needs to fidget but she knows that it will just invite more criticism from the older man.

“Your feet need to be further apart. It will help keep you grounded and balanced. Bend your knees more and get up on the balls of your feet. You don’t want to be heavy and flat-footed; that makes you less agile and mobile,” he lists off, succinct and to the point. Every time he mentions something, he shows her the correct way to do it and waits until she has shifted into a better position. It feels a little weird, like her body doesn’t quite know how to settle into it, but she has to admit that she does seem more stable.

They end up spending several hours in the training room, until the sun has fully risen and Alec has to leave to do some real work. Clary is a little miffed, because throughout their entire impromptu training session, they never even actually get to the whole _punching_ part. Instead, Alec just forces Clary to get out of her fighting stance and then fall back into it. Over and over and _over_. It’s mind-numbing in its repetition. But also, somehow, calming. Almost like some weird variant of the meditation that Dot always tried to get her to try out.

At the end of it, they both unwrap their hands (which they hadn’t even _needed_ to do, but Clary is still happy that now at least she knows how) and Alec turns to leave. Before he can fully escape, Clary swallows back her own hesitance and calls out his name. He stops at the threshold and looks at her over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, and it’s probably the most sincere she’s ever been to him.

He just stares at her for a few stretched out seconds, and then he’s nodding and heading on his way. “Same time tomorrow, Fray,” he calls out just before he disappears.

Clary thinks that she should be a little frustrated and annoyed by his attitude. But when she looks down at her knuckles and finds them free of splits or bruising, she can’t really find it in herself to be angry.

* * *

Somehow, Clary and Alec end up establishing a _routine_.

He forces her to wake up at five in the morning and he makes her _perfect_ the basics before she’s allowed to move on to anything else. And the thing is that Alec’s definition of perfection is far different from Jace’s or Izzy’s, so Clary ends up having to stay in her fighting stance for countless _hours_. Alec has her hold the position for so long that her knees shake and her arms tremble.

But, eventually, she gets it down to a point where she could fall into her fighting position in her _sleep_. And then they move on to punching, and Alec has to continuously critique everything about her technique. She has to pivot her hips more, twist her torso more, lift her back heel up more. There’s always _something_ wrong with her strike and he doesn’t even let her _hit_ the punching bag for nearly a week.

When she does finally graduate to _punching bag permission_ , she nails it. Her blow doesn’t glance off to the side, it connects with the vinyl firmly, and her hands are wrapped well enough that the impact doesn’t rattle all the way up her arm. Alec doesn’t give her a round of applause or some sort of resounding platitude (not that she ever expected him to), but she does get a satisfied nod and what may or may not be the barest hints of a smile. And then he snaps out _‘again’_ in that blunt instructor voice of his.

But even though she doesn’t get a glowing review from her reluctant trainer like she would from either of his siblings, she feels a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction well up inside of her. She’s proud to have gained the coveted _nod of approval_ from the ever-surly Alec Lightwood, but she realizes that the main source of her pride isn’t from any arbitrary praise. It’s from within herself. It seems like such a little thing to be able to land a single punch. But it isn’t. It _means_ something to her. Because she’s had to work her ass off to achieve it.

Memorizing runes comes naturally to her. When she first started learning about the Shadow World, she made flashcards for herself and spent some time just flipping through them, and within only a few days she had them all down. Learning and remembering all the details about demons is a bit trickier and takes more diligence, but she does relatively okay at that too. She isn’t as knowledgeable as Izzy or Alec, but she can at least recognize her opponents and know their greatest weaknesses.

Fighting, however, is something she struggles with. Sure, she can pick up a seraph weapon and feel the pull of it in her veins. Her angel blood gives her the innate ability to activate the blade, but it doesn’t give her an innate ability to _wield it effectively_. And maybe that’s what makes the small victories mean something. The fact that she has to fight tooth and nail just to perfect a single little punch.

She thinks it’s this that causes the disconnect whenever Jace or Izzy try to teach her. It’s not that they are terrible fighters; in fact, from all the gossip that Clary overhears around the Institute, they’re some of the best around. But maybe that’s the problem. From what Clary knows, fighting just seems to come naturally to Jace and Izzy, like how art or memorizing runes is for her. And while that’s beneficial for the two of them, it means that they don’t know how to slow it down and explain things for someone like Clary to understand. It makes training with them nearly impossible.

But with Alec, it’s different. He knows how to slow things down into a step-by-step basis, knows how to fully explain everything she doesn’t understand, knows how to voice all of the problems that simply come naturally to many other shadowhunters. She can’t immediately put her finger on why he’s such a better teacher, not until one day she walks into the training room and sees Alec running through his katas. They’re rudimentary ones, just like the ones that he’s been teaching Clary, and it takes her by surprise.

Izzy and Jace never seem to practice their katas. They spar every single day, but Clary has never once seen them return to the basics with the same dedication as their brother. And that’s when the realization hits her. Alec is one of the best fighters of their generation, right up there with his siblings, and because of that Clary always just assumed that it came as naturally to him as to his brother and sister. But watching him run through the fundamentals of his training, even _years_ after he must have mastered it, makes her rethink everything she thought she knew about Alec Lightwood.

Fighting never came naturally to him, not like Jace or Izzy. He must have struggled, just as Clary is now, to understand how to slow things down and take them step-by-step. He must have worked himself to the bone every single day – just as he still does now – in an effort to reach the same level as his siblings. Alec knows how to explain everything because, at some point in his training, he had to find those answers for himself.

It’s reassuring, and maybe even a little humbling, to watch him fight and know that once upon a time he too struggled to keep up. She never mentions it to him, not directly, because she’s only just barely made it to a point where he can tolerate her, and she really doesn’t want to get back on his bad side. But there’s a newfound understanding between them and Clary finds that she begins respecting Alec a lot more than she originally did.

And it helps, thinking that maybe if she works hard enough she can one day be as good a fighter as Alec.

* * *

Their odd little routine continues and her training progresses. Their unspoken agreement survives the fallout of Alec’s not-wedding, and when Jace goes missing they train together even _more_. It becomes more and more desperate between them the longer that Jace remains with Valentine, and Clary can _feel_ how frantic Alec is through it all. But there isn’t much they can actually do, and so they bide their time and train until they’re exhausted.

She nearly perfects her punches, and then learns all different types and methods. They move on to kicks and then they start working on how to string multiple hits together. Eventually, Clary is deemed ready to spar with Alec. And she has absolutely zero doubt that he goes easy on her, but he always makes a concerted effort to fight like he’s _just_ above her skill level, meaning that she has an achievable goal in her sights. It’s difficult and frustrating and time-intensive, but she always ends up leaving with a sense of accomplishment.

As her training with Alec progresses, she finds herself inadvertently growing closer to the older shadowhunter. Somewhere along the lines she even begins to _enjoy_ spending time with him. He’s almost always grumpy and sarcastic, but he’s also remarkably gentle whenever she hurts herself and needs an _iratze_. And he’s always attentive during their sessions, and even outside of their lesson time he proves to be a good listener. He ends up begrudgingly lending Clary some of his books on Clave history and law to help her better understand her new world, but it’s honestly his own scrawled out comments in the margins which manage to make things comprehensible for her. Everything she learns about Alec makes her think that she’s getting glimpses of what makes his siblings adore him so much.

Clary still doesn’t think she knows Alec all that well – it’s a privilege that only Jace, Izzy, and Magnus seem to be allowed – but she begins to understand more about him. Even though Aldertree is technically the Head of the Institute, Clary ends up catching Alec doing more of the administrative work than anyone else. And if he’s not filing reports or going on patrols, then Clary finds him with his nose stuck in some book – invariably always about law or politics or history – with a pencil tucked on top of his ear, no doubt to make his annotations in the margins. She’s also stumbled upon Alec leading younger shadowhunters through training sessions; there aren’t many children at the New York Institute, but occasionally they will have a couple classes from the Academy come and train in the city, and Alec always seems to do well with them.

So between all of Alec’s numerous responsibilities, he has very little free time. And what free time he does have is split between training Clary, being with his siblings, or seeing Magnus. He never seems to stop or slow down to take time for himself, except for maybe the rare occasions when he goes on dates with his boyfriend. But even then, he always seems to have something else on his mind, some other duty to finish, some other person that needs him.

They aren’t really _friends_. More like work acquaintances or mentor-student than anything. And Clary never even thought that she would _want_ to be friends with Alec. But the longer her training regiment goes on, the more she learns about Alec, the more she realizes that she wants to return the favor. But what good could she possibly do for him?

* * *

Alec continues to push her, far beyond what she ever considered possible. It’s grueling and painful and unforgiving, but Clary accepts each burning muscle and strained joint if it means she manages to improve. The truce that exists between them is tremulous at best, and Alec never _really_ smiles or congratulates her on her achievements. It’s a fragile sort of peace, but it’s peace nevertheless. And each time she earns a nod of approval or a deceptively casual shoulder pat or the hidden beginnings of a grin, Clary is overcome with pride.

Their system of training and bantering miraculously survives through Jace’s captivity, and it survives Jace’s imprisonment at the City of Bones, and it survives most of Aldertree’s pissing contest. But then there’s a demon in the Institute, and there’s Alec slouched against the hallway wall with deep red – nearly _black_ – blood on his hand, and there’s her mother. Dead.

Her training with Alec abruptly ends. And, between the maelstrom of her raw emotions and the cold, hard determination that freezes her blood, Clary isn’t sure if she’s the one who pushes away or if Alec is the one that pulls back. Maybe it’s both of them. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Clary trains with Jace and Izzy. It’s not as effective, but she practices her basics on her own with a sort of burning fury. Her punches land harder, her kicks more violent, her moves faster and stronger and _angrier_. Because now she has something black and viscous within her heart, fueling her. Jace matches her ferocity blow for blow, they bounce their anger off of each other and let it build. Izzy teaches her how to hone her fury into the sharp-tempered edge of a blade, relentless and unforgiving.

Alec avoids her.

* * *

It’s December, nearly four months since she first learned about the Shadow World and her entire life turned upside down, when she finally interacts with Alec again.

She’s awake at four in the morning on a Tuesday, wandering the halls of the Institute and moping about the lack of any decorations. Clary knows that shadowhunters are not festive people, not by a long shot, and that the vast majority of them only observe the few holidays mandated by the Clave – a day to celebrate the angel Raziel’s blessing of Jonathan Shadowhunter, a day dedicated to the remembrance of fallen soldiers, a day to respect the signing of the first Accords.

But even knowing all of that, it unsettles her that there isn’t a single ounce of adornment to lighten the heavy atmosphere of the Institute. No garland, no wreaths, no signs of ornamented Christmas trees or spinning dreidels or glowing kinara. The Institute is just as cold and solemn and depressing as always. She wonders how the six hundred or so shadowhunters that live there don’t go completely insane from the strictly regimented lifestyle around them.

It’s going to be her first Christmas without her mother. They were never religious, and so never celebrated Christmas as anything other than family time with extra decorations and food. She still has Luke and Simon, and the three of them are making plans to spend Christmas day altogether, and then Simon is going to try and spend some of Hanukkah with his mother and sister, and Clary has always been invited to join them. And she’s so grateful for the people still in her life. But it’s not the same, it’s not her _mom_. If Clary had just been a little bit faster, a little bit stronger, a little bit _better_ then maybe-

But, no, she shouldn’t think like that. What’s past is past, and no one can change it. She’s already tried that and it did nothing but bring her more pain and suffering. It hurts – _god damn it_ , does it hurt – to even think about her mom and remember that she’s never going to see her smile again, never going to be wrapped up in her hugs again, never laugh at one of her horrendous jokes again. It hurts so, so much and Clary doesn’t really believe that it will ever stop hurting. But she has responsibilities now, she has a duty now. She has demons to kill, and people to protect, and a genocidal father that she has to stop. She can’t afford to give in to the pain.

She just has to improve, to become the shadowhunter she needs to be. And it’s this need that drives her to the training room at four in the morning, far before the sun peeks out above the horizon. She’s exhausted; she’s _been_ exhausted for months on end. Fatigue weighs her limbs down like lead. But there’s also a jitteriness that zips through her veins. It needs to be bled out of her system, or else she will never be able to sleep.

The training room should be empty at this hour. The second half of the night shift is in full swing, and not many shadowhunters bother with being awake off of the clock. Clary has at least enough energy to be surprised when she wanders in and hears the distinct sounds of someone wailing on the punching bag.

She’s rather less surprised when she finds out that it’s _Alec_.

He’s poised in front of the heavy bag and he’s throwing a series of punches and kicks that are both terrifying and enviable in their ferocity. He’s moving quickly, almost quickly enough that Clary thinks he must be using a speed rune, and he’s staying light but stable on his feet like he’s been trying to teach her how to accomplish. She thinks that, to any outsider, his performance would appear near perfect. His stance is technically flawless, his moves are the definition of shadowhunter skill, his blows are textbook examples that all nephilim children look up to.

But to Clary, it’s obvious that something is off. She can’t quite identify what it is, exactly. She doesn’t have enough combat knowledge to notice the problem areas. But there is undeniably something unnerving about Alec’s fighting. Just going off of her gut feeling, his movements are too jerky, his blows a little too violent and unrestrained, his feet slipping ever so slightly out of their typically steady placement. She doesn’t notice the most glaring issue at first, due to the minimal lighting and the speed with which Alec moves, but eventually she catches sight of his unwrapped hands, and the brilliant red blood that stains the vinyl of the bag.

He looks, to all the world, like he’s perfectly composed, like he’s simply running through an early morning workout. But Clary can see the tension hidden in his muscles, can see the strain that builds there until it threatens to _snap_. It scares her and worries her in equal measure just how easily Alec can hide behind his strict training.

But it doesn’t surprise her. Back throughout middle and high school, there had been a massive push for the students to undergo informative online courses all about mental health. At the time, she had reluctantly followed her teachers’ instructions, but she had complained and groaned about it the entire time and had barely even paid attention. Even so, she vaguely remembers the segment all about self-harm. She can’t recall all of the warning signs, but she’s uncomfortably confident that most of them could be applied to Alec. From what she’s learned, none of the shadowhunters ever had mandatory courses on mental health.

She keeps a fair amount of distance, even as she calmly makes her way closer to where Alec is still focused on the punching bag. Her steps are purposefully loud against the training room floor, but she doesn’t think Alec even notices. She draws to a halt several feet away from him. Clary knows better than to sneak up on a shadowhunter, particularly one so intent on beating himself up. Even if he is exhausted and distracted and not at all in top form, he could still wipe her out with a single blow.

“You need to wrap your hands,” her voice comes out steadier than she expects.

Alec doesn’t flinch. In fact, he doesn’t even immediately stop. He lands another handful of punches unrepentantly. When he finally stops, he rests his hands on the punching bag to still its swinging and he lets his forehead drop against the vinyl. His breathing is harsh, shallow and staggered in a way that makes worry bubble in Clary’s stomach. She can see his hands trembling, can see the shuddering movement travel all the way up his arms. He’s breaking apart in front of her, and Clary can’t decide if she feels oddly honored by his trust or absolutely terrified by the weight crushing him.

“What do you want, Fray?”

She doesn’t really know, to be honest. She wants her mom back, she wants her life back, she wants her father to be dead and the people she cares about to be safe. But not even a Christmas miracle could guarantee her most of those things, and she knows how foolish it would sound to Alec. So she swallows back all of her own self-pity and she focuses on the sight of the blood staining Alec’s knuckles.

“I want you to wrap your hands. Rule number one, and all that.”

He doesn’t give her any sort of smile in response, not that she was even expecting one. Instead, the older shadowhunter’s face remains a carefully blank mask, a shield against whatever it is that tears him apart on the inside. Alec hardly even blinks and it’s eerie. Clary doesn’t know what to _do_ about it.

It’s pretty much the only interaction they’ve had since they went to see Iris Rouse. A heavy silence stretches between them, growing in tension until Clary could choke on it. They have never been exceptionally close, but after spending enough time training together, they had at least advanced their relationship to include comfortable silences and bouts of banter. Now, Clary has to fight the urge not to squirm under the intensity of his dark eyes.

Alec looks like absolute _shit_. And Clary’s certain that she probably doesn’t look any better. There are deep, bruise-dark bags under his eyes, and the color has long since fled from his face, making him seem like some ghost. His cheeks are sallow, gaunt from stress and lack of eating. His eyes are dark and terrifyingly empty. As if it’s so painful that he would rather just not feel _anything_.

Eventually, it’s _Alec_ who looks away. He ducks his head and stares sullenly at the ground, seeming for all the world like a lost child. It’s a hollow victory for Clary to finally out-stubborn the infamously bullheaded Alec Lightwood.

The seconds pass. The air around them seems stale with the faint smell of drying blood and desperation. Clary can hardly breathe through it. She wishes her mom was here; maybe Jocelyn Fairchild would know what to do with a lost boy.

Alec nods, a jerky motion which he only partially commits to. And then he’s stumbling over to the benches at the side of the room. Clary trails behind him, her arms half raised just in case the lumbering shadowhunter actually _does_ collapse. Admittedly, she probably wouldn’t be able to catch him, but she would at least be able to cushion the fall. He thankfully manages to reach the bench, where he gracelessly crumples like a puppet whose strings were just snipped.

He makes no move to treat his hands, so Clary hesitantly seats herself beside him and grabs some of the wet wipes. She moves to take one of his hands – slowly, clearly advertising each movement before she does it – and he reluctantly lets her. The trembling is more noticeable now that she’s actually touching him, but she resolutely ignores it in favor of cautiously wiping away all of the partially crusted blood.

She’s never had to clean wounds before, not even something as relatively minor as split knuckles, so she’s sure that the pressure is too much or that she is scrubbing over delicate broken skin too harshly. Alec doesn’t seem to mind, but she’s not exactly sure whether that’s indicative of her performance at all. After a bit of diligence, however, his hands are clean and she’s drawing an _iratze_ on each of his wrists.

It’s weird to sit there and manhandle Alec’s hands. They’re a lot larger than Clary’s, the callouses older and more numerous and thicker. His knuckles are warm from the blood flow and the healing, but his fingers are freezing. The trembling has reduced into an almost imperceptible thing. She just pauses for a moment, holding tight to Alec’s hands as if she can suffuse warmth into them or take away the rest of the shaking. Alec doesn’t even protest, he simply continues to stare at the floor and passively accept her ministrations.

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly croaks out. His voice is hoarse and whisper-quiet in the oppressive silence of the training room. “I’m so sorry, Clary.”

When she glances up, she meets Alec’s eyes and the breath rushes out of her lungs at the devastated look she finds there. It’s suffocating in its sincerity. She forces a shaky little grin. “So am I. You’re just as much a victim as anyone.”

He shakes his head, but seems to have nothing more to say. Which is perfectly fine with Clary. She doesn’t think she can talk without letting any sobs past her pursed lips.

Clary wraps Alec’s hands. It’s not as perfect as his always are. But maybe it’s good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> It is one million percent completely ridiculous that Clary picks up a seraph blade and ten minutes later is already pretty decent with it. Utterly garbage. The Lightwood siblings are some of the best fighters around and Clary is nowhere near their level and this is the hill that I will die on. The girl needs years and years of training just to scratch them.
> 
> I don't even like Clary (in the show or the books), but I think her and Alec have a lot of potential to have a great friendship. Alec can be the loyal, not-demented older brother that Clary has always wanted, and Clary can be (yet another) obnoxious little sibling to Alec. It's a good combo.
> 
> I might come back and revisit their relationship; it was more fun than I expected to write. Please leave a comment and let me know how you all feel about it!
> 
> ~PNGuin


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